


coffee

by rectifyinflux



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, what is love?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:05:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2175687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rectifyinflux/pseuds/rectifyinflux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you have to say “I love you” to get the point across? To have the other person say it back to understand that they too shared your sentiments?</p>
            </blockquote>





	coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Something that distracted me whilst I was supposed to be studying for tomorrow's exam.

Love.

A strong feeling of affection.

A person or thing that one loves.

Feel deep affection or sexual love for (someone).

But what was love? (Baby don’t hurt me)

Was love supposed to make you grin like an idiot and feel like the world’s luckiest guy? (He’s an idiot)

Was loving someone that feeling where you can’t even bear the thought of life without them? (He can’t live without her)

What did “I love you” even mean? A declaration of affections, your feelings for that person. Something to say before parting with that person. Something to say because you’re in a relationship with someone and they’re expecting it?

But how can you even begin to put everything you feel – all those emotions that come bubbling to the surface, smacking you right in the face it’s like getting punched or having all the breath knocked out of you – into three simple words?

People went around saying I love you. Sometimes too little. Other times too much. But what did it mean?

Do you have to say “I love you” to get the point across? To have the other person say it back to understand that they too shared your sentiments?

“Ward.”

His head snaps up to Skye, sat across him with hair tousled and pyjamas rumpled. Her hands are wrapped around her mug (purple with a white cow with dark brown spots), inhaling the scent of her coffee.

His own (plain black with a penguin in a sombrero, it was a gift) rests by the paper he had tried to read. She offers him that sleep-laced smile, he returns it, raising the mug to his lips.

Maybe I love you is just as simple as her knowing the way he takes his coffee (just a little bit of milk, barely any sugar) even though he insists on plain black.

 


End file.
